


sidelines

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Made Families
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 04:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13426770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: As a central defender, Toby knows his job. He blocks, tackles, intercepts passes and marks forwards. He can see and smother danger on the field, but off-field is another matter. What with Christian and Vincent getting closer, he’s powerless to prevent heartbreak for Christian on the sidelines.





	sidelines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/gifts).



**Coulda had a hattrick**

“Seriously?” Toby challenged the first time he laid his eyes on Christian.

Friday morning, forty-eight hours post-match.

Toby out of the line up due to injury, spending his time recuperating in the sleek, airy confines of Tottenham Hotspur’s gym facilities. Did all the exercises put forth by the physios without complaint, although not with a happy heart. Now, Friday morning found himself seated on a gym mat in his gym gear, waiting on the session to begin. Rosh - his physio- slated to be here in the next fifteen minutes.  
Toby didn’t mind arriving early, listening to the ambient noise of creaks and hums that every building seemed to have. He didn’t even mind the solitude, although Pochettino warned everyone against it.

 _Just because they’re not on the field, doesn’t mean they don’t exist_ , Pochettino explained his philosophy once, _no one gets left behind_. The gaffer understood the frustrations of an injured player, especially when the rest of the team were _flying_.  
He made it a point of duty for someone from the first team to always pop into the sessions when players were out of the team line up due to injury.  
Christian, the elected player to visit Toby’s part of the world today, his cheeks pink from the slap of wind outside, his form clad in the aqua and cobalt blue training gear they all had. Without ceremony or even a by your leave, he plopped down on the training mat beside Toby.  
Christian wasn’t one to _preen_ , or even shout about good news, unless it made him _violently happy_. But he seemed mightily content today, mouth in a curve of a smile, eyes bright, the air around him shimmering. 

“‘Seriously’, what? Oh, and good morning to you, too, Toby.”

“You had the chance of a hattrick,” Toby pointed out. “Against Gillingham?”

“Oh,” Christian carelessly shrugged his shoulders, his eyes bored and expression a touch haughty. “That.”

Toby raised his eyebrows in surprise. He couldn’t do anything else, not really. His legs stretched out in front of him, his weight braced on his arms behind him, fingers pointing away from his body. 

He’d watched the game at home, even videotaping it, just because. 

Toby had lived and worked in England long enough to know what a spectacle the domestic cup matches could be; specifically the EFL and the FA Cup, when the aristocrats of the English game - the top flight- faced teams from the lower parts of the table in rounds three and beyond of the competition.  
The pot of money for the plays and the replays were enough to finance the lower league clubs for at least one more season. For some smaller clubs, increased revenues meant their grounds could stay open. As a result, the lower placed teams battled long and hard, their spirit and rugged grit catching the top flight teams off guard. For the top teams, a trophy was a trophy, and everyone in the hunt for either cup wanted silverware. 

Tottenham hadn’t had silverware for a long time. 

Christian had been in irrepressible form all through the game. 

Less the steely give and take in the match, that he would have had against the top tier teams, more the beauty of performance.  
He’d toyed with the rest of the midfield, easily exploiting their gaping spaces and being the benefactor of two goals. One, a twenty-five-yard strike that stunned everyone into a second’s silence before the Tottenham supporters rocked and quaked the stadium with the noise. A second punishing strike a few minutes later, less of a stunner but just as beautiful. 

Trippier went down in the penalty box under a foul from an opposing player, gifting the chance for Eriksen to have his penalty and hattrick. 

Toby’s eyes narrowed when Janssen grabbed the ball ahead of Erik Lamela and Christian himself for the penalty. Leaned forward, to the edge of the sofa, half expecting Vincent to miss the penalty, because even his out of form had been out of form. 

Almost fell off said sofa in surprise as Vincent’s strike sailed into the back of the net. 

Half expected Christian to be put out, even for a second. Be it a telltale squint of the eye, a tightness around his lips. But no, just _relief_ stamped across his features, looking genuinely glad for his teammate, Vincent lost in the white shirts and arms of varying hues of hugs and congratulations. 

Huh.  
Unable to believe it, rewound the video and watched again, still disbelieving. 

Toby _knew_ Christian, had played alongside him as a teammate for a total of five seasons in two clubs, played against him for another two. Christian as competitive and unabashedly difficult as anyone else when it came to training and competition. Like all top players at this level, he also _coveted_ things, tangible souvenirs of achievement. Man of the match awards, winners’ medals, the whole lot. The chance of getting a match ball... no brainer.  
Which is why him passing on a hattrick for Janssen to score made no sense. He’d been absolutely gobsmacked at the scenes playing out before him and -

“Yes,” Toby repeated. “That.”

“I did think about it,” Christian admitted after a minute, his voice warmer. Christian a study in thought, sitting down cross-legged, his elbows perched on his knees. “But Vincent-- I saw it in his face and body language that he really wanted it, and you can feel for a striker. Toby,” he shifted his gaze to his friend, his eyes warm with sympathy. “It’s not as important for me. It really wasn’t. You know how strikers are. Everything is a confidence game, and he was working hard, taking a lot of shots but just couldn’t convert them.”

“Hmm.”

“He’s a teammate. ‘There’s no I in team’, right?”

“Unless it’s _me_ ,” Toby couldn’t resist the old joke, especially when Christian grinned before he sobered up again. “But anyway, he’s a bit relaxed now, and I’m sure he’ll be better going forward. We all will be.”

“But still-” Toby wasn’t finished. 

“Rosh,” Christian cut the conversation short, as he sprang to his feet, tugging at the hem of his lightweight training jacket down from waist to hips. “Hey.”

“Christian,” Rosh greeted, dark hair pulled away from her face and anchored into a bun. Her dusky skin burnished from the snap of cold outside. September brought brisk breezes and leaden skies, but Rosh’s personality could warm even the coldest of days, and she was filled with banter. Case in point. “No hattrick?”  
“Next time,” he shot her a smile, before departing from Toby’s world with a wave. “ _Tot ziens_ , Toby.”

Wank. Toby wanted to say, but didn’t. This was all wank. 

**The main event...**

  
Slightly tipsy with lashings of Juliper that himself, Mousa and Jan spent all night outside demolishing, Toby dumped the empty bottles in the recycle bin nearby the door in his kitchen. He blinked rapidly at the intensity of the light, taking a minute to adjust to lighting levels, coming from outside where it had been much darker. Not only darker in terms of the dim lighting in the garden where they’d drank and talked, the atmosphere tinted with chagrin too, as they licked their wounds over their woeful European campaign.

Champions League nights, for the first time back at the club for six years. 

“And what do we do?” Jan spat out a mouthful of beer in the grass, his eyes flat and hard. “We bottle it. _Godverdomme_.”

“Well,” Mousa had tried to lighten the mood, “there’s always Europa, eh?”

Toby wanted to say, _Go home, you’re drunk_ to Mousa. But knowing Mousa, he’d say that he was already home, and he would have been right. At times, they tended to live in each other’s pockets during the season. For nights like these, everyone tended to crash either on the sofa, or in one of the spare rooms upstairs. 

“ _Godverdomme_ ,” Toby muttered, pressing at his eyes with the fingers of one hand, holding a carton case of six empties in another. He dumped the bottles in the recycle bin, padding towards the living room, ready to turn off the TV and pretty much herd everyone to bed. They all had tomorrow morning off, to report for meetings in the afternoon. 

“Don’t forget to lock up after you come in, eh?” he called to Jan and Moussa, who were outside picking up the rest of the detritus of their impromptu night out. The plates that had finger foods stacked on them for one, and napkins dotted across his lawn. He wandered through the kitchen, half surprised to find the living room dim, and stood at the doorway until his eyes adjusted. 

Only to be stopped short at the sight of the sleeping figures on his sofa. So that’s what this pair had been doing when himself, Jan and Mousa had been outside doing their post-mortem. Christian’s head tucked in the hinge between Vincent’s jaw and shoulder. Christian one of those sleepers who just _lolled_ everywhere, boneless as a rag doll, his cheeks ruddy from the warmth of his own body. Vincent’s arm around Christian’s shoulders, holding him close, their breathing slow, rhythmic and deep. 

_Hmm_.

Toby shut off the TV, the sound and pictures going off with a wink, leaving dead air and static in its wake. The cliff-edge of silence so steep, so sudden, Vincent’s eyes fluttered open, his forehead wrinkled into that characteristic frown. He took a second, suddenly realising they weren’t alone, his arm tightening around Christian’s shoulders. 

“Toby.”  
“Vincent,” Toby rubbed his fingers along his jaw, and not for the first time, he wondered. “It’s late.”

“Hmm, yes, I--” Vincent wetted his lips with his tongue. 

It _was_ late, everyone should be for bed, in order to get a few hours rest to function when they got in front of the gaffer and his brain trust tomorrow. It was too late to entertain his suspicions now. “Let’s get this one to bed.”

Christian heavier than he looked, with the ability to power nap through a cyclone. Between them, Christian pulled and tugged upstairs, Vincent having the bulk of his weight, Christian’s arm around his shoulders, Vincent’s arm around his waist to steady him, and Toby leading the way. Up the stairs, turn right into one of the smaller guest rooms reserved for family and friends from Europe who crashed for a few nights. Gently, they lowered Christian into bed, his face down, like he preferred to sleep, body sprawled starfish style. 

The room dark, save for the street lights outside. Enough for him to see a look flashing across Vincent’s face as he gazed at Christian’s prone form on the bed for slightly too long. 

On a breath, and a shake of head, Vincent took a step back. Toby offered by rote, “It’s late, you can stay if you want to, before leaving in the morning.”

When Vincent stammered his excuses and said no, with a telltale flush across his cheeks, Toby didn’t press, and let him go. 

**Get everyone on side**

“Chris and Vincent?” Jan rubbed at his temples with his fingers. “Really?”

Then, because Toby knew Jan as well as he knew himself, Jan broke his gaze, only to share a look with Mousa.

In matters like this, Jan had explained to him once, when he needed someone to be a party to the nonsense Toby spoke at times, he always looked to Mousa.

Toby didn’t mind. Mousa and Jan friends before they even knew what the word meant; even when their separate footballing paths took them to Ajax and AZ Alkmaar respectively, they had always stayed in touch. When they finally reunited at Tottenham Hotspur, Toby had been happy for them.

Toby also knew why Jan found Mousa’s presence comforting. 

For one thing, Mousa tended to be a bit more introspective and careful. A calm and accepting presence, a contrast to Toby’s more passionate and brooding outlook. Mousa caught Jan’s look, circled his finger near his temple. Jan nodded, doing that thing with his hand, the action you’d use when you said, _d-uh_ American style. 

“Seriously?” Toby answered, shaking his head at his friends. They were in Spurs’ canteen, having their lunch. Or, at least, talking while ignoring their lunch. Salmon with balsamic vinegar compote, served with giant couscous and a medley of rich colourful salad. 

Normally, they’d take a table in the middle of the room. Due to Jan and Mousa’s seniority, Pochettino liked them in the midst of things so that the younger players could see and follow their example. However, Pochettino wasn’t one to expect this every day, and Toby took the advantage by yanking them to a table in the corner of the room. 

“Listen, Mega Toby-”

“ _Jan_ -” 

“Joke,” Jan replied in Dutch. “But have you listened to yourself? Liiiike, no way.”

“Chris gave up a hattrick.”

“We all would have done that,” Mousa rolled his shoulders, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “Chris knew that Vincent was feeling anxious. You know how strikers are, as skittish as horses.”

“So,” Toby said, spearing his salmon with the tinges of his fork. “You think I’m reading too much into it?”

Jan swallowed the bits of couscous he had been chewing, his eyes distant with thought. 

“You aren’t one to cry wolf,” he started delicately, his eyes dark under sandy lashes. “But Vincent--- he’s suffering from frustration and a lack of confidence, which...”Jan trailed off, but they knew how the rest of that story went. How a striker’s form impacted on his self-confidence which then created a toxic cycle of self-doubt. Vincent wasn’t as battle-hardened as Harry; even when Harry had a drought of goals, he still kept an even temperament, because each missed shot was closer to one that stretched out the back of the net. He never grew smaller, his presence never diminished. 

Vincent tended to shrink on the pitch the more he missed. 

“I mean,”Jan started voice tentative, “that would be an incredibly stupid idea.”

“What with Vincent’s dodgy form and all...” Mousa shifted in his chair, sent Toby a sharp look. “Christian isn’t stupid, and he’s done quite well for himself so far. And --” Mousa broke off, taking a sip from his glass of water. “Well... don’t you think you might be borrowing trouble?”

“You know what Chris is like,” Toby held up his hands in supplication, his eyes widening with concern. “He isn’t emotional- until he is.”

A hush of understanding settled on the table like a shroud, the rest of the noise in the room filling up and in around them. The laughter and chatter from everyone else, lapping at their own island of thoughtful quiet. 

Eventually, Mousa spoke up. “It’s still his _business_ , Toby,” he said quietly, “until it isn’t.”  
Which on the face of it, was cruel, but it made sense. The unwritten rule that players were responsible for their own emotional welfare - until it impacted on their form. 

“So... we just wait?”

“Sorry.” Jan’s voice an apology and a warning. 

**offside**

“You know what the bitch of this thing is,” Mousa mused in Dutch as he chewed around a toothpick, “he doesn’t know.”  
Toby lifted his head from his meal, looked across the room, eyes zeroing along the lines of Mousa’s gaze. As a show of seasonal cheer, the players were treated to a meal at a steakhouse in Surrey, near the London border.The building started life off as a pub, called The Drunken Cow, before being gutted by its new owner and transformed into the best steakhouse on this side of Buenos Aires. 

They’d kept the original details of the build in addition to its name; such as the stout wooden beams in the roof, the details of the sash windows, its raw umber coloured wooden floors, even down to the odd squeak underfoot.  
Everything else, however, described in a phrase as fashionably comfortable. Round tables with plush chairs with armrests. Cooks with portable grills to sear steak and ribs to caramelised perfection, still sizzling from grill to plate. For those who wanted lighter fare, salads so crisp, you thought they’d been picked and processed that day. The dressings tart and tangy and fresh, as if mixed on the spot. 

The lighting - not too bright for it to be industrial - not too dark where it felt awkwardly intimate. The overhead lighting did neat tricks, as in, zeroing in on the centre of each table, diffusing from the centre to the table’s edges, making sure the food was the mainstay of attention, then the people whom you ate with. Beyond that spotlight, people just seemed to fade into the background - if you wanted them to. 

A couple tables beyond them sat Coco, Michel, Christian and Vincent. Coco riffing on the merits of _chimichurri_ , a fragrant green sauce made from parsley, vinegar and other assorted bits of magic, that he spread on everything. From steak to accompanying chips and salad. Michel alongside him eating and nodding, doing the thumbs up as he ate. 

Seated across the table, Christian and Vincent, half taking, half... not. 

“Who, Vincent? Pffft, he knows,” Toby huffed in Dutch, as he sipped at his ginger ale. 

Vincent had the air of sharp interest, his eyes not leaving Christian’s face. 

When Christian looked away, being drawn into conversation with Coco, Vincent’s features in a strange mix of pleasure and pain, the former at being so close to the person of their dreams, when any bit of attention felt like the clouds parting, angels humming. The pain, a kind of _pining_ that made you want to cover the rising flush in your own face because you felt bad for the person at the heart of the emotional storm of it. 

“Not Vincent,” Jan rejoined, scratching at the bright ginger scruff of his beard with the tips of his pointer and middle fingers. 

Oh. 

Oh?

 _Oh_. 

“But he--” Toby started, studying Christian’s face for a few moments, reading the expressions there. 

Christian tended to be quiet. 

Oh, he liked people well enough, and had that sort of temperament that allowed him to get on with people whom he didn’t like. He tended to treat most people like he did any sort of media- polite and distant. His features and manner neutral enough. He never gave anything away, unless either violently happy - when he’d scream because he’d scored a goal- or highly irritated - that vertical line appearing between his eyebrows, his voice cool and clipped. His frustrations were flashpoints, like a missed goal or a kick, rare as snow in the lowlands in July, and dissolved just as quickly. 

As he warmed up to you, you got the flashes of sly humour, and the gentle mockery he’d do of your various tics. The more comfortable in your presence he got, the brighter he got, the looser he became. It was... hard to explain to people what Christian was like in private. 

Himself as presented to the world, but different. Deeply warm, highly engaging, and right now - his face lit as a romantic lead in an old film. Luminous with softened edges, bright-eyed with quiet smiles. Growing up in the environments of football academies, where you learnt to be your own person as well as your own product, Christian knew how to keep discussions going. 

Laughing at Coco and Michel’s jokes - Toby being too far away to hear what they were, but he had an idea. Michel had an armoury of Dad jokes in three different languages and liked to use them at everyone going. Coco would start a joke in English, and in the middle he’d be speaking Italian and riffing on the best olive oil for the type of bread you might have with a meal and at the end come up with a new theory of... _anything_. Which was _amusing_ in its own way, if not confusing. 

Christian talking and laughing before turning to Vincent, saying something, sharing a smile and starting all over again. The thing is, every time he’d look at Vincent, the longer it took him to look away. 

_Oh, shit._

**2nd half: a new strategy**

“Toby,” Vincent greeted with the haunted air of a fugitive who escaped capture for so long, only to be cornered in the end by law enforcement. Their location in the shady, leafy alcove of the garden, with recessed lights in the ground giving off a warm glow wasn’t necessarily the dreaded situation on a suspension bridge. Vincent’s hands up, eyes half wild with an expression warning of his intention to jump.

Vincent always had that reckless aura about him. The jumble of emotions that pumped off him; part bullishness, with a dash of desperation to go with the creeping self-doubt - and something else Toby couldn’t place his finger on.

“Vincent,” Toby answered in the low, placating tones as if he were trying to calm a hysterical child. 

Vincent gave a smile that made his cheeks dimple but didn’t reach his eyes at all. “Not that I’m not happy to see you--”

“Not really.” Toby corrected. 

“You’re right,” Vincent nodded, leaning against the frame of the small gazebo, a bottle of beer in hand. At Toby’s pointed look at the bottle, he quirked his lips again. “It’s not as if I’ll be playing anyway.”

“Vince...”

“I know my limits,” Vincent lifted the bottle in an ironic toast. “One and done. I’m sticking with one.”

Toby lifted his hands as a show of peace, only to drop them at his sides. 

“Chris isn’t here.”

“I know,” Toby said. He’d passed Christian on his trek through the living room, on his way outside to get some air. Christian talking to Ben, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, him rocking back on his heels. _Good, Ben,_ Toby sent encouraging thoughts his way. _Excellent, keep him talking._ And the frustrated thought of, _Why couldn’t it have been you?_

Why couldn’t Ben have been the one Christian didn’t know about until the shoe dropped- or knowing him- until someone clobbered him with it. On paper they both made sense, Ben had lived in Denmark for a bit growing up, Christian was Danish as-as --- butter cookies? Red porridge? The point is, they would have been a better match than Christian and --

“Oh.” Vincent took one step, and in a swift, graceful move sat on the top step, the bottle of beer still in hand. “So...” he raised his gaze, his eyes dark and huge in the semi-darkness, the music and noise from the house muted and distant. “That means, you’re here. To speak to me. On purpose.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” Vincent’s cheeks dimpled again, but not from amusement. “Why?”

***

Short answer, Mousa and Jan.

Longer answer: Mousa and Jan were right. 

Longest and most honest answer: Toby knew that Mousa and Jan were right.

Tried to feel out and circumvent Christian’s interest, but in the end, out of respect for his friend’s privacy, only warned, _Don’t get involved_.  
Asked him obliquely a second time, Christian retreating into distance. Not a cold, remote thing - their friendship too deep and wide for that- but still, a marked reach.

It helped that Jan and Mousa had the instincts of pack dogs; in wanting everyone to get along, they smoothed the static between them and diffused hotspots of concern. They were friendly enough with Vincent, greeting him with a warm acceptance that Toby just couldn’t understand. 

“Janssen is - he’s going to leave, you know that,” Toby said around sips of ginger beer. 

Midweek, a rare space of time of no cup matches to prepare for, European competition already beyond them. So they had their dinners, watching movies, playing games, be it video or board. This time, they were by Michel’s house, rocking up early by agreement to set up treats for a few people he’d invited over.  
Toby, Jan and Mousa setting up the tables with finger foods ranging from vegetarian to mini meat-laden kebab skewers. Napkins and dips by said finger foods with disposable plates to keep the mess to a minimum. 

“I’d rather have Christian around than not,” Jan said, simple as anything. “Also, Vincent is from the Eredivisie, and in an odd way, one of _our_ own.”

“Besides,” Mousa rolled his shoulders. “I mean, Christian still doesn’t know, so that’s something, right?”

Something absolutely gobsmackingly crazy but true. 

Mousa’s words bouncing in his head much later, the get together now in full swing. 

Michel’s house now absolutely heaving with people. Downstairs, his pride and joy - the video game room, ranging from RPGs to the old school Mario Bros video games. 

On this level, a few players throwing themselves about with the _Just Dance_ game on X-box. People might have been surprised at the sort of players who were the best at such games. By tacit agreement, everyone kept their mobile phones off, and their social media circles dark. It was a work night after all, and some of the players in their midst still had various midweek campaigns to be going on with.  
Toby grabbed a bottle of Orangina from Jan’s hand on the way out. 

“Hey!” 

“Snooze, you lose, right? That’s what they say, no?”

“Pisshead,” Jan shot back. Toby shrugged his shoulders, he’d get over it. 

Following his instinct, he stepped through the kitchen door, picked his way through the observatory into the backyard, and here he found Vincent. Having enough of a brood worthy of that _Samurai Jack_ series his nephews liked watching on YouTube. His wardrobe of dark shirt and dark dress trousers didn’t hurt the Samurai Jack moody vibe he had going on.Vincent now sitting on the step, his scruff a bit thicker, as if he were thinking of going the full aesthetic of Samurai Jack in season five. 

On one level, Toby understood why Christian might have found Vincent attractive.  
The intensity around him bright and dancing at varying degrees; palpable and distinct, like an _Aurora borealis_. It radiated through his entire frame, his feelings a continuous stream across his face like pictures on the oversized screen in Piccadilly Circus, his body an outward expression tied to nerves and emotion. Yet, when you read his interviews, he came across as sensible, level-headed. 

This conversation- it wasn’t the right place to have it, nor the right time. 

The right time had been probably six months ago, after Christian gave up his hattrick. The right place might have been back in Alkmaar before he signed to come here. 

“It’s about Christian,” Toby started, not knowing how to proceed. 

“I-” Vincent started, his mouth opened for a minute, as if ready to issue a denial, but then he shut it. 

“He doesn’t know,” Toby said plainly. “Christian-- “ his voice trailed off, seeing the expression in Vincent’s eyes as he said their friend’s name.  
“Gott,” Vincent exclaimed softly, rubbing at his temple with his fingers. “I’d hope not. If I’m lucky, I can finish the season without anyone knowing.” He shot Toby a fulminating look of resentment. “Save you, anyway.”

“No, that’s not what I mean, I-” Toby stopped, taking a swig of drink from his bottle, buying himself some thinking time as the realisation struck him. Vincent didn’t know the signs of Christian’s thawing and warming feelings towards him because he was only just learning the language of Christian Eriksen.  
_Ja_ , he could finesse this, steer Vincent away from Christian before Christian got caught up. 

“Vincent,” Toby closed the distance between them, sat on the wooden step beside him, placing the bottle in the space between his feet. He looked ahead, at the silhouette of bodies in the house, people laughing and joking with their teammates, a good ninety-nine percent of them knowing the certainty of their futures.  
Christian one of them, and such a talent that, if he chose to leave Tottenham Hotspur, he’d be able to decide his own future in terms of where he wanted to go. 

Vincent... was not one of them. 

There were facts, and then there was just being an asshole.

“The end of the season will be here soon enough,” Toby said after a while, sliding a look in Vincent’s direction. Vincent looking ahead of them, eyes squinting as if searching for Christian in the darkness. “It’s not fair to you both for this to go any further.”

“Ha,” Vincent’s laugh now bitter, “as if you care about me.” 

“Vincent --”

“Fine.”

Toby turned his full attention towards his teammate. “What does that mean?”

“I’ll back off. If it doesn’t come up, I won’t bring it up,” Vincent replied in low and bitter tones. “Is that enough for you?”

The promise more than he expected, and Toby nodded. “ _Ja_ ”

**own goal**

“Remember that time when we agreed Christian didn’t yet know?” Mousa asked, idly running his studs over a stray ball on the sidelines, before flicking it onto his instep, and started to lazily kick it from one foot onto the other, the ball briefly cradling in the curve of his instep.  
Everyone already back from the summer break and two weeks into preseason training, getting into warm-ups and easing into the increasing intensity as the schedule of the new season stretched out before them, sticky with the menace of the unfamiliar.  
New stadium, new kit supplier, and --- Toby followed Mousa’s gaze seeing Christian and Vincent talking on the field -- a new complication. 

To the naked eye, they were just talking, but Christian’s face told everything. Not the distant polite smile, or the pleasant, neutral friendliness that he’d put forth. Just looking at Vincent, Christian’s face brighter than the late summer sun around them. His eyes wide and open on him, his smiles less practised and more a quiet ease. 

As for Vincent, it wasn’t as if he walked around the club with a constant cloud on his forehead. Not that the press would report it, but Vincent had had some good times here, so Toby was familiar with his smile, and relative pleasantness, but -- this was new. 

“He knows now,” Jan finished, running his fingers through his hair, as he rocked back on his heels. 

“I guess it came up,” Toby agreed, shaking his head at the scene in front of him.

***

“Paper covers stone, and scissors cut paper,” Mousa intoned. “You know what this means.”

“Oh, come on!” Jan exclaimed, voice filled with indignation as he wagged his finger in Mousa’s direction. “Another round.”

“This is round seven,” Toby pointed out. 

“Ugh,” Jan waved it off, disgusted. “I really hate this game.”

“You’re the one who suggested it,” Mousa shrugged. “I can’t help it if I’m good at this game.”

“The only game you’re good at, Mous’.”

“True,” Mousa flicked two fingers in Jan’s direction, English style. “But it means that you have to speak to Christian.”

“I can do it,” Toby held up his hand, only to slowly let it drop, as he found himself at the end of sceptical looks. 

Tonight, the transfer window closed, with Vincent bundled off and sent to Fenerbahce. Pochettino striking with a swift ruthlessness that unsettled. The main thing the trio agreed on was that Christian wouldn’t be left alone - not tonight, anyway. They’d bundled him after their training session and drove over here to Mousa’s house, claiming that they needed pairings for backgammon.

“Backgammon is played with two people.” Christian pointed out in reasonable tones as he rolled his eyes at Toby. 

“Ah, did we say backgammon?” Mousa threw an arm across his shoulders, Jan grabbing at Christian’s keys as they walked across the carpark towards his vehicle. “ We meant bridge.”

At the house, Christian hung around in the living room, his manner polite, cool, and functioning. When he grabbed at a glass of wine and asked to be excused, they couldn’t tell him no. 

Toby, however, got the hard words and the hand on his forearm as he made to go after Christian. 

“Leave it,” Mousa whispered to Toby as Jan slipped off in Christian’s direction. “Leave him.”

“But I--”

“You know Christian, he’ll come around in his own time.” Mousa looked towards the doorway where Jan had just gone through, then back at Toby. “It might be next week, or as soon as tomorrow. Just... stay out of his way.”

**extra time**

“I do get it, you know,” Christian said the next morning. 

Toby looked up from his phone, halfway between watching instructions on Youtube for hints on perfect poached eggs. This video presented by Carrefour, the cook’s voice low and soothing. 

Christian sat opposite him, with the kitchen island between them, their mugs of steaming coffee atop its surface.

“What, how to poach eggs?”

Christian took a sip of his coffee, his eyes briefly fluttering closed as he took a sip. “Really, Toby?”

“Mine always come out rubbery, and they stick to the cups.”

Christian rolled his eyes, “You don’t oil the cups properly, and the trick is -- you know what, let me do it.”

“I think this YouTube video might be the ticket - “ Toby started, but Christian had already pushed himself from the island and towards the fridge, coffee mug in hand. 

Score. Toby liked poached eggs.

***

Later, the early September morning mild enough for the windows to be open because of the pleasant slightly sun-warmed air -they shared poached eggs with whole wheat bread. The eggs soft enough for dipping. Christian had prepared them perfectly, with enough salt and pepper to enhance the flavour, nothing more.

“What do you get?” Toby asked finally, as he ripped a hunk of bread in two pieces. Mousa and Jan would have been proud of his measured notes, at how neutral he made his voice.

“Football,” Christian raised his eyes, “how it can be hard at times. It’s really _impermanent_ , isn’t it? Like Vincent --” 

Toby raised his head, meeting his friend’s gaze. Didn’t know what to expect. 

“Yesterday, he was here, in London. Today, he’ll be in Istanbul,” Christian spread a pat of butter on a hunk of his bread. Both of them seated on either side of the kitchen island, with plates of the modest breakfast dish between them. “In football, people looking in --- they think we chase the glory or improved terms,” he continued, his voice quiet, his eyes calm. 

“Sometimes,” his voice hitched, and after a moment cleared his throat. “People just search for a home.”

“Yeah,” Toby got that, but decided to shy away from it. “In terms of play style, you mean.”

“Hmm,” Christian said in non-committal tones. “Sometimes, your face doesn’t fit.”

“Christian--” Toby wanting to say something, to point at the elephant in the room, but respecting Jan and Mousa’s counsel enough not to tug at that string. Also, Vincent was gone, wasn’t he? Christian none the wiser regarding Vincent’s stickier feelings towards him, as promised. 

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry,” Toby said at last, stroking his chin as he thought about what to say. “Vincent was a good guy, he did his best, I’m sorry that he didn’t work out. But you know...”

“This is football,’ Christian lifted up his mug of coffee in a mocking toast. “Right?”

“Right.” Toby mirrored Christian’s actions. Them comfortable with each other- but not wholly- the subject of Vincent in the air unsaid between them. As in, Toby wanting to ask, _How deeply involved did you get with Vincent? Should we be worried? Or..._ But there were some things which weren’t in his place to ask, no matter how well-meaning. 

“I think he’ll be fine,” Christian said around bites of his bread and egg. “It’s only a year on loan, right? A lot of things can happen in a year.”

“Yeah,” Toby answered, letting it go. He would have to accept that Christian was now _fine_ , and Vincent far away enough to focus on his own form. “A lot of things can happen in a year, and we’re always on the lookout for a striker turned good, right?”

“Absolutely.”

**aftermath**

Five days later, when Christian stood in front of him on the threshold, eyes huge and dark, the rest of his features expressionless, Mousa’s words skated at the edge of Toby’s mind. _It might be next week... or as soon as tomorrow._

Tomorrow had been five days ago.

“Christian.”

“I’m sorry, I should have rang before I dropped by.”

“Chris-”

“I mean, I,” Christian rushed on, “I just jumped in my car and drove, and I didn’t know where else to go and I-” he stopped.

They gaped at each other in horrified silence, because Christian didn’t babble. He wasn’t one to chunder. On a breath, he took a step back from Toby. Then another, as if he’d turn tail and make a beeline to his car.

“I’ll let you go,” he finished, his expression completely bleak.

Toby pushed the door slightly wider, and wordlessly spread his arms. Christian walked into them, his body shuddering at the end of a long sigh. 

***

Christian had a point about football’s impermanence, Toby thought, as he sat on the sofa beside his friend. But sometimes, moments like these felt like they should last forever, and he tried to capture the mood of the time with photos on his phone. 

Mousa crooning on the phone to tell Eden and Kevin that they couldn’t meet up today, sending Toby a thumbs up as he got the lads on the other side of the line on side. 

Jan cackling at Mousa as he held his Uno cards in hand. Mousa’s elbows resting on the small card table in the corner of the room between them, his face buried in his hands. The day still bright, the light making for an interesting picture. Mousa and Toby's forms in shadow, the primary colours of the cards pops of colour against the light blonde of the wooden card table. 

“I CANNOT!” Mousa bellowed, throwing his head back, his fingers curled into claws as he mimicked Toni Jimenez’s frustrated screech. Which only made Jan and Toby laugh harder. Christian’s body shaking faintly with laughter, but there, because Mousa was funny. Pochettino’s goalkeeping coach had a way of speaking English that came across as intense as if English were a language to be screamed instead of spoken. 

“You were right,” Christian murmured later, looking sightlessly through the window and outside. “Congratulations.” 

And what to say to that? _'I told you so?'_ , or _'Oh, so you two were... so you got... involved? I knew it!'_ You couldn’t, could you? Especially when -- 

“I wish I had been wrong,” Toby said finally, and realised -- he meant it. 

“It’s fine,” Christian rolled his shoulders, before putting his drink down on the low coffee table in front of him. A shot glass of this old-fashioned liquor Jan always kept at hand. 

“It isn’t,” Toby said, leaning into the sofa, the corner of his mouth swung up in amusement as Mousa got a wildcard and threw it in the mix. Now Jan placed his fingers against his lips in consternation at the game before him, with Mousa crowing in triumph. 

“It really doesn’t matter,” Christian replied finally, his voice aiming for matter of fact, Toby knew, but the simple words sounding stark and sad. 

That tore it, made Toby stop thinking and _respond_ : to reach out and gather Christian into a one-armed hug, the ends of his hair tickling the tip of Toby’s nose. For a fraction of a second, Christian’s body stiffened with resistance, and Toby didn’t fight it, just squeezed his shoulder, briefly pressing his lips at the crown of Christian’s hair. 

“It really does, because he matters to you,” Toby said at last, and his reward for that comment was Christian just... letting go, and collapsing against him without resistance. Toby sighed, wishing he could have just run defence on the whole thing. As if he could have intercepted feelings, or shore up a channel before the weakness got exploited. But when it came to matters of the heart especially when it wasn’t yours, you were just ... pushed to the sidelines. His best bet was just to be there, and just ride it out. Still -- 

"I'll be fine," Christian said, his voice a forced cheer, as the slight tremor in his fingers resting against Toby's forearm gave the game away. "I've got you lot, haven't I?"

"Yeah, of course," Toby said, because it was a no-brainer. "Until you don't need us anymore."

"Never," Christian laughed, and it was stronger and more genuine this time. That's when Toby realised, they'd be okay. 

Fin

End.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Notes**  
>  A/N: Many Happy returns, Drizzit ! Sorry that I’m on the road (again!) have a great day
> 
>   * [ Christian Eriksen explaining away said hattrick](http://www.espn.co.uk/football/tottenham-hotspur/story/2956827/vincent-janssen-goal-more-important-for-tottenham-than-my-hat-trick-eriksen)
>   * Match line up and report [Tottenham Hotspur away to Gilligham](http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/football/37357718)
> 



End file.
